


Even Authors Know How to Waltz

by thewritersfreedom



Category: A Moveable Feast, Literary RPF
Genre: Dancing, M/M, Music, Radios, Saxophones, Violins, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7399717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritersfreedom/pseuds/thewritersfreedom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The storm is not going to stop literary giants from dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Authors Know How to Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Even Authors Know How to Waltz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703225) by [Bug233](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bug233/pseuds/Bug233)



> I was kinda inspired by A Moveable Feast while working on this. This has been in production for a while and I'm sorry it's been months since I've posted anything. Shipping authors is pretty fun.

High above the clean city block, taller than the orange emitting light post; the wood pane window mounts itself against solid walls of black. The small square resonates a counter glow of white outside.

Perpendicular lines attach at an intersection, right in the middle of a fragile shield. The glass wells with tears from up above and drops race to the bottom glass pane. Slowly, they trail streams of attempts from the uninvited clouds. Bigger drops lead smaller dew into a river. They branch off into their own flowing paths, finally landing onto the lowest wooden support. Earth’s pursuit continuously pounds with excursion. The whistling storm begs for invitation into a dim room.

Out of the golden light, a soft palm touches their protector from the cloud’s troublings. Their heat transfers into fog right on the glass pane. The harsh taps against his fingers bang with more force which attracting alluring heat. Another glow illuminates the current room; the color blended and brightened both rooms, the bedroom and the living room, at the same time.

“Scott, something wrong?” a deep gravely voice sounds through the small doorway. The other male’s white dress shirt covers a sturdy build. Black pants, slightly wrinkling from being in a suitcase for too long, hides thick and well toned legs.

Scott’s own legs shake from slight anxiety from the surprise from Mr. Hemingway and the cold weather’s beating after running outside. “Nothing, we’re stuck here until the storm stops. It’s too cold to do anything.”

“You don’t want to walk in the rain?” Hemingway steps towards Scott “It’s nice out there,” he cracks one of those smirks. It doesn’t seem to own the connotation of seriousness, nor was it a joke. Was it both?

A crackling of shocks scratched the clouds and lit the sky with white light “The storm’s getting worse," Scott jolts. "The radio even stopped working,” The older author shakes his head, tsking. Scott’s ears ring when sudden static spikes screech from crinkling signals.

Hemingway turns the signal dial to the left and the volume down, until violins and whistling flutes soothe their way in. Slow saxophone notes flow out of the speakers in rivers, in streams, into lakes of symphonic euphoria . The quality lowers and heightens with every windy beat against the radio waves. The flutes of the first row in the symphonic band wear out, when the strong wind blow their sounds out of the way.

The partners of violins and saxophones intertwine with overlapping streams. The other groups in the symphony pause. They leave the prominent instruments in their own bubble of rhythms. Each rising note of the saxophone compliments the strings of elongating melody from violins.

Hemingway steps forward as his hand wraps around Scott’s waist. A warm breath leaves a foggy imprint on the glass. Swirling whorl fingerprints appear like caught tracks in snow. They climb the glass and slide down with a small squeeze of skin that pressures Scott to turn facing Ernest. The other arm lifts Fitzgerald’s hand, with Hem’s thumb snug on the other’s palm. Enough careful strokes of the hands cause their heated chain reaction.

Now their palms pressed together as rougher wider palms touch a smaller streamline one. It eases their inner heat as one surfaces out of the melodious ocean.

“I didn’t think I would get this far,” Hemingway pulls Scott’s waist close. “I’m actually terrible at dancing,” he admits when he looks deep into Fitzgerald’s sparkling visionary pools. Though they were as dark as the wood in the fireplace, darker than the birch wood chair, but they were not as dark as the soft chocolate blankets that cover the biggest bed in the whole apartment flat.

“I may be of service, old sport,” Fitzgerald nods and cracks a small shining smile “May I have this dance?”

The other corner of Hemingway’s smile lifts “You lead the way then, Scott.”  
In the swiftest of motions, their arms lower and extend to one side. Scott’s left arm wraps generously, reaching half way across the other’s back. His left foot points forward. In a pattern, Fitzgerald’s toes tap out of line and the tip of his black shoe touches Hemingway’s round brown shoe.

He places the heel to the left “This foot moves backwards while I move my foot back.”

Ernest nods and watches his own foot slides back “Like this?”

Under their feet, the carpet’s colors distorts. A flower’s once muddied gold pattern transforms into pastel yellow of the soft tipped rose. Even the leaves printed under the petals love their rebirth into the lively green. The borders trap the rose in a wispy ashed world. Grotesque dry bloodied colors do not dust themselves, noticed by Hemingway.

Scott peers up with the vibrant ever rising smile, creasing his pale cheeks, besides his well pointed nose. His cheeks had two ridges where the smile created two folds. An Irish lipped smile with rounded off corners, a sight of relief.

One step forward. Two steps back. Hemingway almost stomped too confidently onto Fitzgerald’s right foot. He thought it was correct, but he steps out of the way. A loud tapping onto the switched surface of oak drew more invisible squares. Fitzgerald holds his new friend's hand tight and Hemingway squeezes the thin palms back. With another quick tug, Scott pulls the new author in closer. Their chests, once paralleled, collide together into a singular line.

Hemingway shifts his eyes up onto the curled upside down rainbow; it absolutely painted onto Scott's face.

Then, came the stumble of shoes. Stepping on loose black laces and the sole of Hemingway's shoe tumbled to the side. Fitzgerald's tie played tug of war and was clearly a one sided match. Back to the carpet and chests making their space so minuscule, both authors hurt their heads on impact. Hemingway's forehead and the back of his head rattled the most.  
The loudness of the radio swirled in his head for a moment. Jumbled saxophone notes clustered into some kind of grotesque rhythm idiocy. Violins screeched and called out incomplete sentences of beats. They yelled and cried. The instruments vomit and spat sporadic ludicrous.

Scott's forehead healed "Are you alright, Hem?"

"Yeah, I'm alright," Hemingway said.  
  
Out of some strange phenomenon, Fitzgerald pressed his lips onto Hemingway's forehead. The Irish lips that cleared Hemingway's head of musical garble.

Once again the music regulated its flowing melody, but too late. The song ends with the last violin note.

It was then the author of _The Sun also Rises_ saw the clouded gates open up; they separated to reveal the golden rays and they shined in perfect sync with F. Scott Fitzgerald.


End file.
